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 |    We live much of life amid unique choices. Joy is anchored in The One beyond our life. |
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“There are times when solitude is better than society, and silence is wiser than speech. We should be better Christians if we were more alone, waiting upon God, and gathering through meditation on His Word spiritual strength for labour in his service. We ought to muse upon the things of God, because we thus get the real nutriment out of them. . . . Why is it that some Christians, although they hear many sermons, make but slow advances in the divine life? Because they neglect their closets, and do not thoughtfully meditate on God's Word. They love the wheat, but they do not grind it; they would have the corn, but they will not go forth into the fields to gather it; the fruit hangs upon the tree, but they will not pluck it; the water flows at their feet, but they will not stoop to drink it. From such folly deliver us, O Lord. . . .” ― Charles Spurgeon “Our anxiety does not empty tomorrow of its sorrows, but only empties today of its strengths.” ― C. H. Spurgeon “Hope itself is like a star- not to be seen in the sunshine of prosperity, and only to be discovered in the night of adversity.” ― Charles Haddon Spurgeon “If sinners be damned, at least let them leap to Hell over our dead bodies. And if they perish, let them perish with our arms wrapped about their knees, imploring them to stay. If Hell must be filled, let it be filled in the teeth of our exertions, and let not one go unwarned and unprayed for.” ― Charles Spurgeon “A Bible that’s falling apart usually belongs to someone who isn’t.” ― Charles Spurgeon “Visit many good books, but live in the Bible.” ― Charles Spurgeon “When your will is God's will, you will have your will.” ― Charles Spurgeon https://www.goodreads.com/author/quotes/2876959.Charles_Haddon_Spurgeon (Philippians 2:13, KJV)    |
sitting on the shelf beauty in a little pot peaceful leaves stand tall by Jay O’Toole on April 11th, 2025 |
| Where is the way? I cannot see. There's no way back to go. No up, no down, no hope for me. No safety can I know. My phone is dead, my flashlight, too. Can I be safe to sit? My heart is failing. I'm so through. What happens if I quit? To save myself, I know not how. Believe that help will come? Before whose mercies now to bow? Destruction, my last sum? How did I get here? Can I leave? Is hope forever lost? Should I now sleep for morn's reprieve? What is the final cost? When in a "No Win Scenario" without an answer near, what can I do, and where to go when nothing's seen nor clear? If I have missed Salvation's Call it's worse than a night in the woods. If Hell's my lot, fore'er I'll fall. No floor. No hope. No goods. The darkness of the woods is felt. The dark of Hell's a vise. The burning cannot ever melt the Sin, that is not nice. The Light of Life, the sun, that dawns, the Hope, that never fails. The way out of the Night, that yawns the Blood of Christ avails. by Jay O’Toole on April 10th, 2025 |
It's been about six months, I think, before the hurricane. The lawn was mowed when to the brink Helene was most insane. Today was mostly pleasant, cool, just 70 F degrees, following the mower, like a mule through a soft and gentle breeze. But in the afternoon's strong sun, I was glad to finish well. First mowing of the season done, accomplishment to tell. In a respite on the family's couch, so purchased with five hours, I suddenly felt a left leg OUCH, that caused success to sour. I walked around, and walked some more, then finally Charlie left. With the backside of the thigh still sore, weird friendship thankful cleft. It's been two hours since Charlie Horse rode in to feast on thigh. The old man knows the need, of course, to stretch with water nigh. A note to self in clearest writ: "Respect advancing age. When next we mow, then call on wit to strength of body gauge." by Jay O’Toole on April 9th, 2025 |
sun, rain, wind or cold environment each day lives always something new by Jay O’Toole on April 8th, 2025 |
The things we love oft seem unique. Our tastebuds have no equal, but when we find the friends we seek, there's no need for a sequel. I like my chocolate-chip cookie dough, alone or in icecream, but hot sauce is not something I would know in life or in a scary dream. Some think Picasso is the best. Some like Stravinsky cringe, but when it's Christmas, I am blest, and with its lights, I binge. Some watch for days their monster trucks. Some golf through brush and sand. Some act as pudgy Friar Tuck. Some play the drum in a band. But tastes are like one's fingerprints, unique as every soul. Respect we must each moral bent to keep the friendship whole. by Jay O’Toole on April 7th, 2025   |
| So many voices in the world. So many truths they all profess. So many thoughts in the brain are whirled. So many "know" fore'er will bless. But voices in the ever lands are voices of the vast unknown. The voices of the shifting sands aren't the voices bowing 'neath The Throne. Some everlasting voices bless, but some forever voice their curse. Some worship He, Who saw our mess. His victory over death was terse. The voices of the lasting dark in tears or hatred voice their grief. Forever voiced escapes embark. Forever pained, they seek relief. The Voice of Truth calls thee today. Oh, listen, if the sound you hear. Blest Summons we must needs obey. Salvation's Gift to the heart is dear. by Jay O’Toole on April 4th, 2025 |
| When searching for peace, each day's sweet release, we need to learn this one thing. "Just do what we must. In God is our trust." 'Tis time to relax and sing. by Jay O’Toole on April 3rd, 2025 |
Just Who can change the heart of man into a gift, that's pure? And Who can make a lasting plan, its end thereof is sure? The One Who birthed each human soul can make the spirit live. Electing Grace doth make one whole Salvation's gift to give. The stony, rough, unfeeling heart can't see God's Kingdom, rare. His Spirit inside is the start for one, who can now care. How doth this change come 'tween the two? What makes me new within? What did I do to see it through? Why do I still know sin? Mysterious change by God's Own Will doth give my spirit birth. Though once 'twas empty. He doth fill me, covered by His Worth. by Jay O’Toole on April 2nd, 2025 |
coming in unknown filled with foolishness so much taxing is the ides by Jay O’Toole on April 1st, 2025 |
"O, Dorothy, 'tis true, you see. We're not in Kansas anymore!" With weather lore, I sought to free this month because of early roar. "If comes in it does by the lion's mane, then goes out it will with the softest rain." But roaring storms pass by, again, throughout this March to leave insane. "This land, O Dot, 'tis emerald green. Ignore the man behind the screen. Such weather, I have rarely seen. What flowers will in April preen?" "Comes in like a lion, and goeth out the same." The lore no more is quite as wise. This weather, yet, may seem quite tame when The Lord will in His Wrath chastise. by Jay O’Toole on March 31st, 2025 |
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